


Vincitore

by Clo



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Porn Minimal Plot, Victory Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5077024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clo/pseuds/Clo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What starts as a bet, becomes a habit, becomes a refusal to back down."</p><p>(Or, one way the night of the Rome Masters final 2006 probably *didn't* end.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vincitore

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long while ago when I was mad about the Rome 2006 result and never posted it anywhere because, firstly it was meant to be longer, and secondly it was just a nothing reaction fic to Roger losing. Then I realised if I never posted anything about Roger losing, I'd never post anything (sorry Roger. You know I mostly only yell insults at the TV out of love).
> 
> Standard detrimental-to-your-health warning: don't read this if you play any kind of tennis matches you may conceivably be handed a trophy for winning. Please.

* * *

 

_(15th May 2006, the night of the Rome Masters final)_

  
  
What starts as a bet, becomes a habit, becomes a refusal to back down.

Because being the first to call it off would be admitting defeat, and Roger’s equally set in his habit of never being the one to blink first. Even when he knows he’s the one with the experience, the responsibility to say _we have to stop_. Knowing that it’s stupid even as he meets Rafa’s eyes with the runner up trophy cold against his sweat-slick hands, and sees the promise of where he’ll be, later.  
  
On his back with the carpet rasping like sunburn over his shoulders, Roger blinks away sweat and the memory of Rafa’s smile on court, brighter than the sunshine, than the hard shine of the trophy. The air’s hot, Italian night time breeze drifting through the open window like a breath and he can’t distinguish between them, the air itself and Rafa’s hot gasps prickling against damp skin as the Spaniard fucks him. Rough in all the ways of inexperience, youth where harder is better and faster is a triumph, digging bitten nails deep and Roger will wear the marks along his arms tomorrow. He’s learned to ignore the intrigued glances of journalists the day after he does this. So far, they haven’t dared ask.  
  
Just as well, he thinks as the next thrust jerks a cry from his throat, cock slick and full inside him with Rafa’s knees pressing his thighs wide and it hurts, stretching tired muscles. He’s not sure he could lie credibly with bruises over his skin like a child’s painting, the marks of Rafael Nadal everywhere from his scratched arms to the slickness between his thighs as he slides into his seat for the flight home.  
  
“Please.” Rafael talks during sex, Roger’s discovered, a flood of words half incomprehensible that seem aimed at the ceiling more than his partner. “Please please please, por favor -” His grip on Roger’s arms slips, greased with sweat and his next push is off-balance, wrong angle so Roger moans, half-pained, pushing up to fix it. This not so awkward as their first time but close, their bodies unused to the shape of the other; Roger’s body memory still works on the assumption of breasts and hair that brushes his face feather-light with each kiss, even with the scrape of stubble on his lips and burn, hard and hot, of getting fucked that’s nothing like sleeping with Mirka. Still tells him to expect softness though he can’t imagine why.

That was a long time ago.  
  
“Roger.” Opens his eyes, to find Rafa staring at him through the strands of dark hair that cling to sun-burnished skin. Trickles of sweat streak it, curve over parted lips, drip from his chin to splash like tears on Roger’s cheeks. “Roger, please.”  
  
“What?” Roger whispers back because he’s nothing if not an expert in denial by now. No guilt he’ll let himself admit and he wraps his legs up around the muscled back, heels bruising on the bumps of spine as the Spaniard takes it as _more, please._ Sometimes inexperience is rough in all the right ways and he slams back into the thrusts until the growing liquid-heat drowns the pain of carpet-burn, of muscles forced to stretch after weeks of playing on clay that drags him down like quicksand. Still some red caught in the crease of Rafa’s elbow and Roger wraps his hand over it, grittiness smeared crimson like a wound over the gold, over his palm as the pleasure coils low, low in his groin until Rafa snaps his hips with all that strength and Roger’s drowning in whiteness, mouth open on cry that’s silent, held back and swallowed by the hot breeze.  
  
A thrust later, or a few, he’s not coherent enough to count, Rafa shouts something in Spanish with his head thrown back; heat pools inside Roger again, warm wetness this time that will turn to cold by the time he gets back to his room and the relief of a shower. Flares of aftershocks shared, still joined until Roger gets a wet hand under him, drags himself away and upright.  
  
Everything that could be said hangs between them unvoiced. Rafa’s kneeling, glistening with sweat and come in the glow of lamplight, contrast of gleaming wet shine against the shadows, behind the hair tumbling over his face. Hunched almost and Roger thinks he should feel sorry, feel anything around the emptiness that’s all that’s left, always is after this.

But _shouldn't_ isn’t everything. He ignores the screaming protests from his legs as he gets his feet under him, snagging a finger in his discarded shorts before he stands, uses them to stem the wet trickle down his thigh as a cover for his knees threatening to give way.

“I guess I’ll see you in Hamburg,” he says, and silently curses himself as it uplifts to a question. As if he’s the one in doubt.  
  
“ _Si_.” Glancing up, Rafa’s stare rakes down Roger like the final scratch of nails, face to cock. Lingers on the bead of wetness at the tip. “See you there Roger.”  
  
Promise, heavy with the smirk of assurance that doesn’t need to surface but emptiness is good for more than avoiding guilt. Roger smiles back, a bare twist to the corner of his mouth, pulls up his shorts and turns to the door. His t-shirt is in a tangled heap where he left it, discarded the moment the door closed behind him on his way in and he catches it up to hang loosely from one hand. His room is eight doors away down the hall and it’s late. No one to see him, sweat-stained and marked, looking utterly fucked and if there is, well. A crumpled t-shirt won’t help. Checking for the hard edges of his room key in his pocket, he opens the door and pauses as if it’s an afterthought, as if he hadn’t planned it from the moment he stood up.  
  
“Congratulations,” he tosses over his shoulder, tone curling around the word like a taunt. Time for one glimpse, brief, of Rafa’s startled face and then he’s in the hallway with the door closing softly behind him.

He won’t be the first to back down because experience just means knowing there’s more than one way to win.

 


End file.
